


Metamorphoses

by InsaneOrange



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Art, Beauty - Freeform, Blood, Dark, F/F, Ritualistic, alana is a psychologist, but not really, don't read if hannibal is not your cup of tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-04 00:47:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6634297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsaneOrange/pseuds/InsaneOrange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I have only aided you in your becoming.”</p><p>OR<br/><br/>The becoming of Margot Verger and Alana Bloom</p>
            </blockquote>





	Metamorphoses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChuckleVoodoos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChuckleVoodoos/gifts).



> I wrote this waaaay back for a writing class, but wasn't too happy with the end product so it ended up shelved. But now that my dissertation is upon me, I am looking for all excuses to procrastinate. I found this, changed some stuff and am marginally happy with this. This fic might see other edits, but I like how it has turned out.  
> This is also a gift to ChuckleVoodoos, who actually brought me over to the Hannibal fandom with her amazing fics. 
> 
> Please review and/or leave kudos if you like it!
> 
> PS- This is a dark fic. **Trigger warnings for blood, slight psychological coercion through drugs.** But if you're in the fandom, I guess you're used to such warnings already.

Crystal clear barrage of water splashes out of the tap, gravitating towards the gold-plated basin. The noise echoes loudly in the bathroom. It is not the only sound echoing.

  


_“I am afraid of myself.”_  
  
_“Are you afraid of the self society expects you to be or the self which you perceive as distant from what you should be?”_  
  
_A bitter laugh echoes in the room._  
  
_“I’m afraid of the self that you have engendered in me, Dr Bloom.”_

  


The edges of the basin are stained with blood, held onto by thin ivory arms. Her long brown hair is open and in disarray and she is gasping for breath. The lights are blinding her. She fumbles for something on the marble counter—anything that will give her breath back to her. She knocks off the gold-plated glass, the ornamental bottles and boxes of lotions and powder, and is still gasping. The cupid-shaped gold-plated knobs on either side of the tap are bloodstained too. 

  


_“Show me how,” Margot whispers, standing barefoot in the kitchen. She’s wearing a white satin nightgown that seems too big on her, almost disappearing in the stark white background of the kitchen. Her wavy brown hair and sparkling green eyes make her look like an angel. Her lover notices and quirks her lips. Margot tiptoes quietly into the kitchen as the other woman picks up a blunt knife._  
  
_She is silently beckoned to her lover’s side. She is caged in her lover’s arms for an evening kiss and is then turned to face the counter._  
  
_“Hold the knife like this,” her lover says, handing over the knife to her and holding her hand instead, with the other hand holding the fish’s head. “We scrape the scales of the fish like this,” she continues, and Margot lets her hand be directed. When it was done, they switch to a sharper blade. “Then we insert a sharp knife into the anus toward the tail end, and bring it up gently, slicing toward the head.” The knife was left in Margot’s hand, her lover holding open the fish instead. “Finally, pry open the abdominal cavity very carefully with your fingers, and cut away at the insides, but gently.” Margot, in her clumsiness, butchers it._  
  
_“We can try again.” Her lover smiles at her._

  


The gold-plated frame, embedded with panels of translucent glass, marks a threshold that she has to cross. Margot has to get out of the bathroom but the blood filling up in the huge claw-footed bronze bathtub won’t let her leave. Neither would the half-dead woman in it. So she doesn’t.

  


_“Your house is beautiful,” Margot comments, walking slowly through the corridor that separates Alana’s living space from her office._  
  
_“Beauty is no hardship for those who can sense it,” Alana smiles beside her, the dim lighting softening her broad shoulders and illuminating her face._  
  
_Margot turns to look at the walls entrapping her and Alana, half covered with dark blue wallpaper and half painted on._  
  
_“Is this Michelangelo?” she asks, lightly touching the painted part of the wall._  
  
_“Yes,” Alana replies softly._  
  
_“Did you paint it?” Margot queries, her fingers running over the mural reverently._  
  
_Alana nods slowly._  
  
_“I painted Sistine Chapel's ceiling on these two walls here. The one that you’re touching is the Story of Creation, and the other one is the Downfall of Humanity.”_  
  
_“You’re good,” Margot whispers, turning to look at the other wall. “You could be a professional artist.”_  
  
_“One can be many things, I suppose,” Alana says, coming to a halt, “but I’m more interested in the art than the artist. Art is immortalization of beauty, and someday, I want to be beautiful forever.”_  
  
_“You are beautiful to me,” Margot whispers, watching Alana closely. A blood red door stands in front of them._  
  
_“Not yet,” Alana whispers back and opens the door._

  


Margot splashes some water on her tear-streaked face, pours some on the tap to clean the blood off it and looks up into the mirror. She is still mostly spattered with blood, her eyes are bloodshot, her face is pale: she looks sick. There is something changed about her, though. It’s in the way she holds herself. For the first time, she feels like she owns her body. Her lover catches her eyes in the mirror and smiles at her.

  


_“I have only aided you in your becoming.”_  
  
_It’s an office Margot spends an hour everyday in. It is the most unpleasant hour she is forced to spend with her lover. One wall is a bookshelf, one is painted blood red and covered with more exquisite artworks, one has a panoramic window, with rich curtains drawn over it. The last wall is plain white, with the blood red door set in it. The carpet is luxurious, expensive and Turkish. The ceiling is very high. Furniture is arranged around the room carefully with the cushioned armchairs they use in the center of the room. This room intimidates her._  
  
_They are sitting in their armchairs, facing each other. Margot sees the blood red wall behind Alana and shudders._  
  
_“You’re a psychopath,” she says dully, rolling up the sleeves of her white top. It’s time for their ritual._  
  
_Alana gets up and moves towards her desk in a corner of the room, taking out a box. She opens it and delicately tears the packaging of a new needle. She, then, breaks the seal of a small bottle and starts filling up the needle with the fluid in it._  
  
_“If I was,” she says, checking that two-fifth of the needle was full of the fluid, “my compassion for you would make it… highly inconvenient for me.”_  
  
_She comes over to Alana’s side and gently pushes her back into a more comfortable position. She takes up the hand offered and injects the fluid slowly into Margot’s vein._  
  
_The effect is almost immediate. Before Margot loses herself, she slurs, “Tell me Alana, do you love me?”_  
  
_“ Yes.”_

  


“You’ve made me a murderer.”  
Margot turns to face her lover. Alana is spread out in the bathtub, naked. Her skin is flawless and red, except for the neat and precise slit that stretches from her lower abdomen to her chest. Her upper body is slightly propped up with the curve of the bronze bathtub and her dark hair is open. It spills out of the tub as she tilts her head back. She is beautiful. It thrills Margot. It sickens her.  
  
Alana coughs once. There isn’t much breath left in her.  
  
“I have made you who you were always meant to be,” she slurs. “You were born an artist, Margot. You’re going to be one very soon. Happy Birthday.”  
  
Margot stands there motionlessly, looking at her lover fade away slowly. After a few sluggish heart beats, Alana’s face goes blank. It is time for her to come alive again.

  


_“Do it,” she says, as she removes her clothes one by one, folding them carefully._  
  
_“I don’t want to,” Margot sobs. She is shuddering out of her skin._  
  
_“This is a gift we’re giving to ourselves,” Alana reminds her, holding her gently. “This is for both of us. Liberate yourself, Margot. Make art out of me. Just as we practiced.”_  
_She steps into the bathtub and presses a beautiful hand-crafted knife into her young lover’s shaking hand._  
  
_“I love you.” Alana smiles._


End file.
